The Death of Nelson

It's the 30th anniversary of the ghastly, racist Rockefeller Laws, passed at the psychotic urging of New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller. Despite an overwhelming community, human-rights, religious, public-health and judicial outcry, in and out of New York State, to end the Rockefeller Laws, the New York Statehouse is in political gridlock over the issue and can't pass anything. Every elected politician is terrified that if they vote for reform, their next opponents will say: "My opponent is soft on drugs!" and "This sends the wrong message to our kids!"

So, incredibly, Nelson Rockefeller's vile, cruel, savage legacy of racist, gulag-packing, decades-long mandatory-minimum drug felonies — the model for nearly every state's and the federal response to non-violent drug addiction and use -- is still alive and well 30 years later.

Nelson himself isn't.

Here is how Nelson Rockefeller died.

Nelson Rockefeller was married to Happy Rockefeller, they had kids, the whole Family Values bit.

Nelson Rockefeller had a bunch of very high-class, expensive art. So much so that he needed a full-time curator. He found one, Megan Marshak. She was 27. Nelson was 71. 71 - 27 = 44.

Anyway, Megan Marshak was such a good curator that Nelson bought her a brownstone apartment in a real nice Manhattan neighborhood. He used to go over there all the time, usually in the evenings, and they would talk about art.

One night — 26 January 1979 (a Friday) to be precise — they were talking about art and Nelson vapor-locked. He wasn't wearing many or any clothes, maybe just his socks and those weird rich-guy sock garters, and he fell on the floor and started sunfishing and turning blue.

Now if this had happened to me, my art curator would immediately have leapt for the phone and called 911, and a few minutes later I'd probably be sitting up, and a paramedic would ask me my name and where I thought I was, and I would be thinking about getting dressed and moving on.

But this was Nelson Rockefeller. This guy was rich and powerful on a level we can't even enumerate. He'd also been Vice President of the USA for a while, and he'd run for The Big Job once or twice on the Republican ticket. The media loved to publicize all his activities, with visual aids if possible.

And this was the most un-boring, entertaining and highly surprising thing Nelson Rockefeller had ever done. This was The Mother of All Photo Opportunities.

So his art curator picks up the phone.

But she doesn't call 911.

She calls a girl pal, a TV news person, and the pal comes over to the brownstone, and they chat about what's The Right Thing to do in a tricky situation like this.

It's more complicated than just a naked old guy sunfishing and turning blue on the carpet. First, he's married to Someone Else, and she's as famous and rich and powerful as the naked old guy is.

Second, Ms. Marshak is a complete unknown to the media and the public, and to Mrs. Rockefeller and the kids -- so far. If she plays this one wrong, by tomorrow morning she is going to be the most famous art curator on Earth.

So there's a lot to chat about. The girls chat for about an hour, going over all the options.

Even after analyzing the Blue Man Problem for an hour, there just aren't a lot of these. Eventually somebody, not Megan Marshak, calls 911, and the paramedics hit the siren and haul ass to 13 West 54th Street.

Nelson was still twitching a little, and they got him into the ambulance. They pound on him and blow air into his lungs and shoot him up with all sorts of thrilling things, maybe zap him a few times, but he's not sitting up for anybody. He codes in the ambulance. He is an ex-Nelson.

Within hours, the media puts all the big noisy messy pieces together, splash them all over Page 1, and that's why it only cost me 35 cents on 27 January 1979 (a Saturday) to read all about Megan Marshak's last art consultation with Nelson Rockefeller.

Megan Marshak got to keep the brownstone, but the neighborhood wasn't quite as nice as it used to be because there were always 15 news photographers camped on the front stoop waiting for her to try to sneak out to get groceries.

Isn't that an attractive story? Tell me you still don't believe in Karma.

bobmer.javanet@rcn.com http://users.rcn.com/bobmer.javanet